


Dedication and Degradation—or Pastel Pastel Pastel

by orphan_account



Category: Muse (Band)
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Modeling, pastel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 21:38:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13152549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A single day in the life of Matt—a pretty well-off model with an affinity for ropes—and his bear of a boyfriend, Chris. We see them go through the motions on their daily journey, although… it’s a bit unconventional.





	Dedication and Degradation—or Pastel Pastel Pastel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bellaliemy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaliemy/gifts), [Dombell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dombell/gifts).



> This is for anyone else in the “Chris is secretly a sub” fanclub. Hope y’all don’t mind me adding a few extra flavors—after I started writing, I was like, “Shit, this needs more.” This is the more. Also, this is my longest one-shot to date, but I feel like splitting it up would be, uh, weird. So here we go: a few thousand words of fluff, a few thousand words of kink, a few thousand words of sex. Thanks for reading in advance, guys.

My name is Christopher Tony Wolstenholme. I'm twenty-five, I work full time as a bartender, I pay all my taxes, and I go to the occasional football game on weekends. I love to swim, even if I burn easily in the sun, and living somewhat close to the beach allows me to do so whenever I please. I run in my free time—I'm training to run a marathon one day. I've got a few mates from work who I go out with every other week, and we talk shit about our jobs and coworkers. They're great fun, really. I look like a bit of a hard-ass—I’ve got tattoo sleeves and quite a few piercings and studded jackets, but I consider myself a pretty friendly guy. I'm bisexual, although I haven't had a proper girlfriend in ages. I have a few weird kinks. I drink only recreationally and sleep with my socks on.

My name is Christopher Tony Wolstenholme, and my boyfriend is a model.

He's called Matt, Matthew James Bellamy, and he's my everything. And he is the most beautiful man on the face of this good earth. To be honest, I completely understand why he's a model—no one can really resist him. He's got those typical model's high cheekbones, and he's thin enough that they create sharp lines across his face even when he isn't pouting. His eyes, perfect azure with flecks of ultramarine buried deep within the iris, are deep-set, and dark shadows always seem to decorate the space above them. Usually, he gets his eyebrows done, and he always tells me it's because he thinks that they're naturally too bushy. I happen to disagree—his entire face is designed to be _perfect,_ every element connecting fantastically to form a human work of art.

And that doesn't just go for his face—his body is gorgeous, as well. He'll work out at least twice a week, and whenever he does, he takes off his shirt. I have the pleasure of seeing his thin abs flutter while he does sit-ups, and I also have the opportunity to watch as the porcelain skin there starts to shimmer with perspiration. He's got a wiry body, with lean muscle occupying almost every inch of his form. Except his hips—he's got some of the cutest lovehandles in the world. He's naturally pretty hairless, save for a few spots on his lower belly which he usually gets waxed. His legs are thin but strong, and they can carry him for miles whenever we run together. For a small guy, he's pretty fit and pretty lean, which surprised me at first.

Now, I'm used to it.

We live together, having been in a relationship for a solid four years. I think that when first he saw me, pretty tall and hairy and a bit of a drunk, and he said, “This one’s mine.”

And, hell, I don't complain. The man is _divine._

He knows it, too. He likes to _flaunt_ to the world that he’s beautiful. It’s mostly on his Instagram, as opposed to his professional shoots. Still, though, some of the stuff he puts on there….

_God._

I buy a ton of the stuff for him. We share almost all our income, and I don’t usually get a lot, so I let him have most of mine. And he goes _crazy._ He doesn’t get a lot in numbers, but he what he does get is… _delicious._

His favorite food is pasta. He’s one of those people who wears mom jeans and pale yellow sweaters to make himself appear younger than he is. He loves snakes and dogs, and would probably prefer to live on a farm if we didn’t have the jobs we had. He’s got a few weird kinks. He gives the best, softest, most tender kisses in the world.

It’s Tuesday afternoon. I’m taking him to a shoot in an hour, and then the rest of the day is ours.

Oh, I _love_ when we have evenings to ourselves. Maybe we’ll do a scene.

Scratch that, I _really_ hope we do a scene.

He bounces into the living room, where I’m slouched on the sofa and watching some reality show. “Chris!” he giggles, and I turn just before he bounces onto the sofa. He’s donning mint green overalls and a pale pink sweater, with the cuffs on his pants rolled up to mid-calf. I can tell he’s simply thrown the outfit on, since he’s going to be taking it off later to throw something else on. White socks cover his feet up to his ankles, exposing a tiny bit of the pale flesh of his calf.

“What’re you doing today?” I ask, and he smiles, latching onto my arm.

“Underwear stuff. Maybe pajamas. I think a bodysuit.”

“Alright.” I trust that he knows what he’s doing—usually, if he’s uncomfortable, he’ll only tell me after the fact, but I’ve been in the room a few times when he’s told photographers off for being too lewd. He’s quite the little fireball when he wants to be. Underwear shoots, for him, are usually where the photographer lingers a bit too much on his hips. He has at them, whenever that happens.

Feathery touches grace my forearm, and he fiddles with the hair there. I can vaguely tell that he's tracing over an inked star on my arm. “You gonna stay and watch?”

“Maybe. Might pop out for a coffee or something. I’ll get you one if I go.”

“Okie dokie.” he smiles, and we settle into a comfortable silence as we watch the show that’s on. It’s a quiet afternoon, one that would usually be filled with chocolate and slow sex but is instead filled with warm sun and cuddles. 

I really can’t complain. He’s a living hot water bottle, and having him pressed tightly onto my side feels like my own slice of heaven.

Eventually, the show ends, and I grab my keys. The studio’s an hour walk, so I decide to drive him to save time. My treat—he loves being driven, and it’s a rare occurrence within our city. Parking is bloody expensive, and the roads are usually a nightmare. The entire trip, he stares out the window, marveling as people and buildings crawl past with the traffic. He’s like a kid, sometimes, with that wide-eyed gaze, those skewed teeth, and that gaping, smiling mouth.

The more I think about that mouth whispering fantastically dirty things, the more that I _hope to God we do a scene tonight._

“Baby,” I announce when we pull into the garage across the street from his studio. “You want me to go get a coffee now, or should I get it later?”

“Now,” he says, half to himself as he unbuckles his seatbelt and flings open the door. “I’m bloody thirsty. I need you to _quench_ my thirst, Chris!”

I nod in affirmation, brushing off the innuendo, and we meet behind the trunk of my car. He’s thrown a baby blue satchel over his shoulder, and he digs his hand in it for a second before pulling out a crumpled slip of paper. “So you can get in,” he mumbles, handing to me, and I fold it into a tiny square before slipping it into my back pocket. “You know what I want, right?”

“Course,” I smile. “Have fun. I’ll only be a few.”

He pulls himself up on tiptoe for a second to peck my lips, a goofy grin decorating his face afterwards. “Love you!” he calls, whipping around and briskly heading in the direction of the studio.

“Love you too,” I reply, turning around and heading towards the coffee shop.

I’m right, of course—it’s pretty empty, and I’m in and out within ten minutes, his drink piping hot in my hands. I stop to get a bagel—everything, toasted, with cream cheese—before heading to the studio myself. I don’t want to miss too much, as I rarely accompany him. _Especially_ if he’s doing an underwear shoot.

_Especially if there might be a bodysuit involved._

Automatic glass doors slide open to the studio as I near the entrance. It's a sleek, modern building, minimalistically decorated in greys and splashes of primary colors. The building is almost as familiar as our home, as he spends so much time here and frequently invites me to folow. I walk in, and a friendly woman at the white front desk greets me with a grin. I hand her the paper Matt gave me, and she instructs me to go down a hallway on the left.

I find his name, printed on a piece of copy paper and Scotch taped to a door, and I ease it open. “Matt?” I call, poking my head into the room.

I almost— _almost—_ drop his coffee.

The pastel sweater and overalls are gone, folded neatly over the back of a simple chair. His previously-childish form is now covered by a single piece of black cloth, one that wraps deliciously around his form and defines his hips and chest. It’s a bodysuit, and velvet by the looks of it. It shimmers with every movement of his, giving him a certain feminine quality. The one arm he has up that holds a water bottle to his mouth stretches the fabric over his nipples, and they show up as tiny bumps on his pectorals. The black makes him look soft—there’s no other way I can describe it. Dark shocks of hair are purposely mussed, but it’s mostly natural, as no stiff gel keeps it in place. It's reminiscent of bedhead in the slightest way.

But that’s not all. There’s a beige rope tied around him, wrapped over his shoulders, twisting around his pecs, tiny knots going down his front. It’s not there for restraint, I can tell—no, it’s there for the sheer _sexiness_ of it. If he had tits, it would be holding them up—square windows perfectly outline his slight pecs. It curves right where his cock is, as if it’s creating an opening for it, before it travels under and behind his body. As he turns to face me, I get a glimpse of his side, and I can see that it’s pulling his hips backwards, actually _pulling_ them, so much so that it bridges across a gap created by his pert arse and defined shoulder blades. Where the rope meets fabric, it pulls, and the faint outlines of muscles and ribs become more prominent to my eyes as time passes.

“What…?” I ask, my question trailing off into thin air. He faces me completely, and the sight of him hits me in full force. “What?”

“You got it!” he promptly interrupts, capping his water bottle and throwing it onto a nearby vanity. “Thank you!”

My horrifyingly dirty train of thought is interrupted by him plucking the coffee from my hands and taking a massive gulp. Before I can warn him to stop, he immediately recoils, pulling a face as he sets it on a nearby table. “Too hot!” he exclaims, fanning his mouth with a delicate hand. At the close distance, I can see hints of black eyeliner and shiny lip gloss on his face. It annunciates his eyes and lips, two features of his that make him completely irresistible. Some other makeup—stuff I can't identify but adore nonetheless—highlights his cheekbones, making them stand out more than usual.

“Matt….” I gulp, staring up and down the rope that’s tied around his body. “You’re….”

“Yeah?” he asks, pouting slightly and extending his arms straight in front of him. With a tiny click, his elbows lock, and his fingers intertwine with each other to stretch his palms away from him. “What is it?”

“You’re _delicious.”_

“Thank you!” He accepts the compliment without a second thought, but I can tell by a faint flicker in his eyes that he just _knows._ He knows _exactly_ what I’m thinking. “I tied the rope all by myself, are you proud of me?”

 _I am so unbelievably proud of you,_ I want to say, but my mouth doesn’t seem to be able to annunciate a single word. _You are the most gorgeous man I have ever seen. I just want to ravish you, right here, right now._

_God, I hope we do a scene today. You, seeing me, seeing you in that rope, that’s a scenario that I definitely need._

The look I give him is one of complete and total _lust,_ and in response, the fucker _giggles._ “Yay!” he exclaims, clapping his hands. “We gotta go back now, come on.”

Cold fingers wrap around my wrist, and suddenly I’m being dragged back down a white hallway by a man in a bodysuit and bondage rope.

The room he’s shooting in is painted and decorated in modern grey, with square sofas and stools scattered throughout. At the far end of the room, a plain white background is draped over a wall, with flood lights illuminating it. Two photographers, along with a few other assorted workers, are already in the room, standing at their equipment.

A short girl, no taller than five feet, waves at us as from the backdrop as the door shuts quietly behind us. “Matt, over here!” she calls, and he smiles and waves back at her.

“Hi, darling,” he says, bringing me over. “I’d kiss you, but my face is absolutely _covered_ in foundation.”

“I’m not sure your man here would condone that,” she laughs, offering her hand to me. “The name’s Serena Aaron,” she introduces, and we shake hands. “I’m directing your lovely boyfriend today. You can sit on any of the chairs you’d like, just don’t step on the backdrop, alright? We’ll probably be only an hour, maybe less. Then you can have him back.”

I smile daintily. She doesn’t know.

With quiet words, I mutter thanks, sitting on a stool that happens to have an unobstructed view of where Matt will be standing.

He tiptoes over, before standing in the dead center of the white felt. Serena tells him to move, to act natural, to act _sexy._

And he _does._ He twirls—slowly, mind you, so I can study every aspect of his sinewy thighs as he does so—he sticks his hips out, he pouts. The velvet twists in perfect synchronicity with his form as he moves, almost like a second skin. The white of the background accents his now-black hair, along with the velvet and the light rope. At times, Serena adjusts him physically, playing with the rope to make it accent his chest more. She’s a nice girl, but every time her hands skirt over his skin, a pang resonates through my core. I don’t want anyone touching him when he’s like this.

I only want him touching me.

He gets onto the floor, lying on his back and arching it deliberately. His head twists to the side, eyes narrowed behind thick eyelashes, and his mouth is slightly ajar as he brings a finger to touch his glossy bottom lip. At that moment, he’s the perfect picture of pure, adulterated _sex._ Even without anybody knowing him, knowing what he looks like when he does it, the lust that radiates from his form is plainly obvious and positively delectable. I recognize the pose, something he pulls often when he’s on that perfect edge, when I'm atop him and he's just about to—

I cough into my fist. I can’t get hard, not with these jeans on. I need to save myself for the scene.

He moves to his knees, stretching his body so that his long torso becomes clearer to the camera. His hands float to behind his back, and from my position, I can see those spidery fingers wrap around the rope that has encased him.

When he laughs, it looks so natural, the corners of his eyes crinkling and his tongue sticking out a tad. Every smile seems genuine, every look of curiosity or desire so _real._

I can’t help but to film a few moments, the part when he gracefully returns to his feet and spins once again, shooting a look over his shoulder. The lights flash, and he’s laughing, one hand on his head and the other by his side. They flash again, and he’s got his hands floating down his neck, eyes gazing into the distance in what can only be described as awe.

I realize, then, that he’s staring right at me.

With that, the shoot concludes, three-quarters of an hour having passed. His posture immediately becomes more upright and less pliant when Serena announces the end, his hands clasping together in front of his chest. He thanks her with a bow of his head, then almost skips over to me. “Hi!” he exclaims, once again rising to tiptoe to kiss my lips. His are slippery and taste slightly of silicone, from the gloss, but the taste of him is still there. “What did you think, Chris?”

“I think you… you are so beautiful.”

Even if it’s just a tiny bit, he blushes. “Thank you.”

I cup his face with my hands, bringing myself down to kiss his nose. He says nothing, only giggling as he takes my hand and brings me back to the dressing room.

“Let me take the makeup off,” he mutters to himself, and he grabs a few wipes from the vanity, “then we can go home.”

“Matt?” I hear myself ask.

“Yeah, babe?”

“You wanna do a scene?”

He turns, the wipe not yet having hit his face. His usually pulled-up eyebrows are relaxed, giving his face a hard demeanor. “You sexy thing. Of course.”

“Wait,” I say, and he furrows his eyebrows. I fish out my phone, switching it to the camera. “Do something cute.”

“Why?”

“For my… for my personal album. Please?”

He drops the wipe onto the sleek white wood of the vanity, smiling with his eyes closed and making peace signs with both hands. I take a few pictures, grinning myself at the tiny dimple on his left cheek and the skewed tooth that pokes out from his lips. “Okay,” I say when I’m done, and he returns to taking his makeup off.

When he’s done, and his face is clean, and his coffee finished, he starts to undo the ropes around him. My hand grabs his wrist.

For a moment, I see _it,_ the _look,_ and I ease my hand away from him, thinking I’ve overstepped. But he returns, grinning devilishly. “What?”

“Can you… can you leave it on?”

“Why?”

“’Cause it’s _hot.”_

One of his eyebrows quirks up. “Hot?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to just put my clothes on over _this?”_

I breathe deeply. “Yes.”

“Okay.”

The speed which with he agrees with me is astounding, and he gets to draping his sweater over himself. I notice a tiny design on the front, an orange koi curled into a circle, and smile. I can’t remember him ever buying that one.

He’s dressed. It’s difficult to tell what he’s wearing underneath, but a few bumps along his stomach give it away. To me, at least. Because I already know.

“Ready?” he asks, and I nod. He takes my hand and leads me out of the studio, with a wave to the girl at the desk. His blue satchel bounces against his hip as he brings me to the car. I notice that it's hard for him to sit comfortably, and he squirms a bit before settling. "Damn rope's in my arse," he mutters, hardly audible, and the corners of my lips quirk up in a smile.

"We better rush home, then," I reply, and he grumbles.

I drive him home. Despite the ropes that I know are digging into his form, he still faces the window, grinning like a fool as the scenery passes by.

The car door slams loudly when he gets out, and he unlocks our flat with visible haste. "Come on," he mutters, "hurry up. I want out of these ropes."

"You won't even keep them on for me?" I reply, strolling to the door with my hands in my pockets.

The moment my feet cross the threshold of the door, he slams it behind me, pushing and pinning me to the wall.

_Yes, there he is._

"You were unusually assertive today, _toy,"_ he growls, one arm pushing against my collar and the other grasping my waist. "Why?"

"I don't know," I mutter, thrilled that he's doing _it._

He lets out another noise, something animalistic. The cute, boyish man from earlier is gone, replaced by someone with clearly dark intentions. “You do know. Tell me.”

I don’t dare disobey. “Because you look… beautiful in that outfit, sir.” The name slips out, most definitely caused by his current stance, and that’s when he knows I’ve agreed. His face creeps closer to mine.

“You know what, toy?” he asks, and I squirm under his arm.

“Yes, sir?”

“I believe you.” He kisses my neck, arm still pressed forcefully into it.

“Thank you, sir,” I mutter as he starts to nip and suck at my skin.

He pulls away, smiling at his work. I can feel the bruise blossoming where his lips were just attached, and I blush madly knowing that it’ll stick out above my shirt collar. “Go to the bed, toy,” he whispers with infinite softness, pecking my lips. “I’ll be there in a minute, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” I mutter, swallowing as I walk over. My head leans down, bending slightly to look at the floor. It’s the stance he taught me years ago, the one that he always makes me use when he’s dominating me. Shoulders relaxed, arms at your sides, eyes down, knees bent a tad, back hunched ever so slightly. He always stands straight, head up, each stride filled with purpose and dignity. It’s the tiniest difference, when things like this happen, but makes me feel that much lower, and him that much higher.

Doing as he’s told me to, I lie down on our bed, facing up with my hands at my sides. My eyes skirt over myself, the inked arms that he so adores bare. My nipples poke at my tee, but those are the only harsh bumps on my otherwise-smooth torso. My legs are still covered with black jeans.

The door slams shut when he walks in, and his voice is back to that harsh, commanding tone. “Strip,” he orders simply, black leather in his hands. He’s still donned in those overalls and that sweater.

“May I—May I get up, sir?” I ask, knowing better than to push the boundaries of his speech.

“No.”

“Yes, sir.” Never am I permitted to say no to him. When we’re in a scene, when he does what he does, I must listen to him at all times. Without rising from my position, I pull my shirt off over my head, throwing it aside as I kick my shoes off. My trousers and pants are next, and I have to pull my hips from the bed to shimmy them off my legs. They too fall to the floor with a soft sound. I’m not hard yet, as years of practice have allowed me to focus on other things when we’re in a scene, just so that I can get hard only when he wants me to. It’s difficult—almost impossible at times—but we both love it.

I leave my socks on, though. He loves socks.

He climbs atop me. The weight of him is slight, but still enough to make each breath a bit more difficult as he sits on my chest. The denim of his overalls chafes against my nipples, and I suck my lips into my mouth so I don’t make a noise.

“Look at me,” he orders, and my eyes fly from their sub stance to look at his own. He’s smiling, a look of pure love in his rapidly expanding pupils. Dainty, almost feminine fingers move around my neck, accompanied with cold, hard, unrelenting leather.

Of course he picks the collar. It’s a thick, black strap with a buckle in the back and a steel ring on the front. Simple, but it does the job. I watch his face turn from satisfaction to focus as he clips a leash—the other leather piece that had been in his hand—to the heavy ring. He gives it a few tugs for good measure once he’s done, pulling my neck along with a slight _clink_ of the metal as he does so. A short grunt escapes his throat at his accomplishment.

“We are going to do two things today, toy,” he explains to me. I keep my eyes intently focused on his face—that gorgeous, sharp face that was modelling for a camera not an hour ago—as I let his words swim over me. “We are going to go out and have some fun, and I am going to fuck you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply.

“Which order would you like, toy?”

I swallow. “Are you going to let me choose, sir?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to go out first, sir. I’d like to let other see you use me. But I also want you to tell everyone that you’re going to fuck me after, and I want them to know that only you can see that.” My words are practiced, precise, chosen so that he will be pleased with me.

God, I love to please him.

He nods curtly. “Very well, then, toy. I’ll get your outfit.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He leaves me, and I lay still, waiting for him to come back. When he does, he’s holding a thick jacket and lace briefs. The meaning is implied as he throws them at me, and I dress myself. “Get up,” he instructs once I’m finished, and I obey. I follow him down the stairs, one of his hands grasping my leash.

The moment we’re out the door, my feet only covered in socks, he’s back to normal. He drops the leash and refuses to acknowledge its existence, instead reaching for my hand. I tuck the leather into my coat as his fingers wrap around two of my own. We begin the walk to where we’re going, and neither of us need to say anything to indicate where that is. He simply presses himself into my side, giggling slightly. “What?” I ask, a smile creeping onto my face.

“Both of us are wearing weird stuff under our clothes,” he admits, and I laugh lightly with him.

“I guess.”

He stops us when we’re ten feet from the place, and pulls on my jacket, yanking me down to his height. Before I can ask him what’s up, he kisses me fiercely. His lips are pillowy and soft and taste slightly of citrus. He’s delicious as he licks at my lips, as he pushes harder against me, as he bites at the tip of my tongue. My hands ghost to hold his head, and I kiss him back. It’s long and sweet, something that’s not uncommon but still cherished.

We snog for a solid few minutes, before he pulls away with a couple last pecks. “Love you,” he whispers against my lips.

“Love you too,” I reply. It’s the last gesture of compassion we’ll have for the night. But I don’t mind.

His hands move to run through my hair, grazing the buzzed sides and fiddling with the brown mop atop. “You’re gonna do great, okay?”

“Just for you.”

“Just for me.”

He kisses me one last time, smiling softly, before he extracts the leash from my jacket. “Come,” he instructs, his voice no longer sweet.

I obey.

I hold the door open as he walks in, closing it behind us. His hands never leave my leash. The woman behind the first counter of the dark hallway smiles, vaguely recognizing us, and stamps our hands as we sign our contracts. “Have fun,” she says, a signal for us to head forward. I grin back, but as I do, Matt kicks the back of my knees and I fall to the ground.

“Crawl,” he orders, and I do so, following behind him with newly-sore palms as he leads me to the second counter. A friendly man greets us, offering to take my coat. Matt makes me take it off, and the man places it on a rack. He offers us any equipment to rent, but my owner declines, instead asking for eye masks. He ties mine onto me, and I mutter thanks as he puts on his own. He replies with nothing, simply leading me to the far back rooms. He knows exactly what he wants.

Matt stands out in the basement, the only one wearing bright colors amongst a mix of darker neutral tones. He’s always been that way, I suppose—standing out—and so I don’t mind. I’m somewhat proud to be his, catching glances of others in my lace and crawling around on my hands and knees. It’s also probably got something to do with the shock factor; everyone would expect Matt, the obvious twink, to be the one crawling, not the six-foot-tall tatted man.

I keep my eyes mostly down, though, as Matt leads me to the room we’re going to be using. A few people are already seated, having been there for a while. Others stand around the walls, recently there.

Yeah, this is where I’m going to be for a while.

Inside the dark, candlelit room is a single rope, hanging from the ceiling. Matt jerks my leash, and I’m forced to follow him towards it. Hard linoleum pushes against my protesting knees as I crawl further in, until I am kneeling right below the rope.

“Give me your hands, toy,” he snaps, dropping my leash, and I do so. He fastens my wrists together within the rope, then leaving me to hang. I so desperately want to look at him, want to see his face drawn with pure lust, but I dare not to break my role. Not in front of all these people.

I am unbelievably aroused. My cock starts to twitch in its lace casing.

Matt interrupts my train of thought. “I have one of your favorite playthings, toy,” he mutters into my ear, but still loud enough for the spectators to hear. “Would you like to see?”

“Yes, sir.”

My voice is a dull crack in the silence, deeper than usual with raw desire. I hear him searching through his satchel—the same pale blue satchel that he had at the studio only hours ago—and he triumphantly grunts as he finds what he wants.

“Look at me.”

When my eyes turn up, I see him holding a deep purple vibrator, grinning with pride. The mere thought of the toy inside me, filling me _in front of all these people,_ has me on edge. I shift a bit. “Do you like it?” he inquires.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He moves to my arse, stroking it gently through the lace. I melt into his touch, a warm reminder of his real sweetness hitting me straight in the heart. But it suddenly stops. He’s pulling down the briefs, exposing me to the crowd. The garment rests at my knees.

“Look,” he says, speaking to our audience. “Look at how beautiful this man is.”

I arch my back and drop my head for effect. Mumbles fill the room.

The unmistakable sound of lube hitting the toy has my head swirling. _Is he really going to just put this in me? In front of everyone?_

Of course he is. The tip prods at my entrance, and I shimmy my hips as the cold shocks me. He barks, “Stay still.”

I obey.

In one long stroke, he pushes the entire vibrator into my flushed body. _“Fuck,”_ I swear under my breath, my hands pulling painfully at the ropes grinding into them. It hurts, and he knows it. The fucker _laughs._ Every breath of mine is now hitched, all emotions and senses taking root at the foreign object that has just been plunged into me. The toy stretches me wide, which forces sharp breaths from my lips.

He waits. He knows that I have to adjust before he does anything else, and I know that he won’t continue until I tell him I’m okay.

I collect myself. Pain still shoots though my abdomen, but I have to power through it. “Continue, sir,” I breathe. “Please.”

“Good toy,” he praises, and I sigh as one of his hands floats through my hair. “Very good, pet.” That hand creeps down to the leather tied around my neck, to the leash attached to it, and _yanks._ I cough harshly, rasping breaths forced from my lungs, and he pulls on it again so that my head is bent back to see him behind me. As my hips move to try to adjust, so does the toy buried beneath them, and I cry out. My back is arched painfully, every muscle in my upper body straining as he pulls me apart. “I am going to whip you,” he states, much too plainly, and I shiver.

“Yes, sir,” I choke.

He drops the leash, and I cough, spitting onto the cold floor. My eyes turn to the ground as I hear the clicks of his shoes approaching me. Slowly, ever so slowly, he stands in front of me. “Look up,” he orders.

I obey.

He snaps off his overalls, pulling the straps over his shoulders and sliding them off his legs. I almost start to drool just from the sight of those legs—I want to crawl over and lick stripes up and down them. But I compose myself.

He pulls off the sweater, then, and the outfit beneath is finally revealed. Hitched breaths from the audience fill the room, and I feel my own fading, as well. The glimmer of the bodysuit in the dim light is _gorgeous,_ and he looks like a living angel. The ropes are still perfectly tied around his form.

“What do you think, toy?” he asks.

“You are beautiful, sir.”

He chuckles, for a second revealing who he truly is, before falling back into his dominant persona. “Good.”

With calculated motions, he walks back around me, and I can feel his fingers prodding at the toy within me. I silently beg him not to, for each touch shoots intense pleasure and pain up my core, yet he does anyway.

Fuck control. I’m hard as a pipe.

I’m thankful that I already am, for he clicks the toy to life a split second later. Sensations rush up my body; everything from unabashed, raw pleasure to harsh discomfort acclimates at my pounding skull. I can feel it brushing against my prostate, the stimulation an added stir in my core, and I bite my lips to stop a moan from falling out from it.

Somehow, I sense that behind me, he’s preparing what he’s going to use to whip me. A dull throb of fear makes a home in my stomach—I hope that it’s not his bullwhip. That makes me make _horrid_ noises of tainted sex.

Leather skirts over my bare back, a gentle tickling to get me prepared for the real thing. It’s a cat-o-nine tails, meaning that I’m going to be covered in stinging marks by the end of the scene. Each touch of the long, soft strands makes me squirm. I’m not nearly ready enough.

He can sense my apprehension, somehow, and bends over me, stiff ropes and soft velvet digging into my back. “Chris, you okay?” he whispers, each word tickling my ear.

I nod—albeit barely—and he smiles. With a lick to the shell of my ear, he stands back up. “Head down,” he orders, and I do so, noticing that I’ve picked it up a bit as time’s gone on.

The moment I look back at the ground, the first of many hits smacks across my back. It’s accompanied by a swift _crack_ that resonates through the chamber, followed instantly by my grunt. Every part of me clenches when I feel it against me, and the sting flows _very_ quickly through my tensed form.

Holy _fucking shit,_ it feels _so good._

As a second hit comes down, much closer to my arse than the first, I push to the forefront of my mind that _it’s Matt who’s hitting me. It’s Matt who’s giving me these marks, who’s letting everyone know that I’m his. It’s that wiry, tiny angel who’s raining all this pain and pleasure down on me._

One of his hands moves to adjust the vibrator buried in me, eliciting a loud moan from my mouth. Swiftly, another scarring lash falls upon my back, some of the tails brushing against previously inflicted wounds. _Thwack_ after _thwack_ of stinging pleasure rains down on my marred skin, and I can’t help but to buck my hips against the air and whine for more. My arms are filled with dull pain as I attempt to hold myself up, and my knees are rubbed raw with the force of my weight pressing down on them. Through crossed eyes, I can see that a single strand of drool creeps from my wide open mouth to the floor, but I don’t care. I don’t care. I just want more.

_He’s so good. He’s so fucking good._

More harsh smacks fill the room, and I writhe in my binds. It hurts _so bad,_ but it’s a good pain—the type of pain that you feel when you’re just on the verge, but not quite there. It’s absolutely _exquisite._ My cock weeps, untouched, desperately craving attention.

A moment passes, a moment where he doesn’t whip me anymore, and I wait. I wait for a flurry of strokes to grace my throbbing back.

It never comes. Instead, his tender palm presses against my flesh, stroking it gently. The salty wetness of his sweat seeps into the tiny cuts on my back, sending fresh waves of tingling pain throughout me, and I groan. _God,_ it hurts.

His other hand, with a quick and unannounced movement, yanks the vibrator from my body. The sudden emptiness causes me to tense yet again, biting my lip as hard as I can to stop a pained shout from falling from it. My eyes involuntarily shut as I feel my body trying to adjust to the sudden lack of movement and lack of a foreign object.

Bad choice. His fingers are under my chin, suddenly, pushing my head up. I peek out from barely-cracked eyelids to see his face only inches from mine, staring directly at me. The fingers under my chin disappear, and pull at my leash instead. He jerks my head up, so it’s level with my hands, still bound at the wrists. A deep purple blur is forced into said hands, and my fingers reflexively close around it. “You will suck it,” Matt commands me, and when I don’t oblige immediately, he shoves my head forward so my nose bumps the vibrator. It’s still covered in lube, and I swallow a bit, dreading putting it in my mouth. The action disgusts me, knowing that the toy’s just been inside me.

A sudden tug on my leash dispels all disgust, and I take the toy to the hilt into my mouth. It tastes so strongly of me, along with the unmistakable silicone slickness of lube. I pull my hands away from my mouth and force it back down my throat, squeezing my eyes shut. The mask on my face starts to slide down, slippery with sweat, but I can’t do anything about it.

“Keep sucking,” Matt instructs, dropping my leash and heading back behind me. I do so, and as I do, he starts to pull my underwear up. Before it completely covers my arse, though, he presses a light kiss to the cleft.

Another tiny exhibition of softness that he and I can’t resist.

With a slight _snap,_ he pulls my underwear all the way up, then stands. Mid-suck, he extracts the vibrator from my mouth, wiping it on the junction of my elbow before placing it back in his bag. He then unties my wrists, letting me fall completely to the ground. Every one of my muscles aches from the position, but he gives me no time to recuperate. The leash is back in his hands, and he’s tugging, forcing me to crawl alongside him to the door.

Before we leave, he turns. “When I take my toy home,” he announces to the stiff crowd, “I am going to lay him out on my bed. I will then strip him, and fuck him absolutely senseless.”

With that, he turns, and pulls me out the door with him. We head back to the main room. It’s grown more crowded, yet I am still the only person crawling at my master’s feet.

I don’t mind, though, for now, everyone has a perfect view of the welts on my back. The welts that he gave me.

We watch a demonstration onstage, where a man wraps a woman in cellophane. Matt finds it intriguing, but that’s not a fantasy I’d indulge in. He makes me watch, though. As I do so, he quietly slips back into his overalls and sweater, the soft appearance returning.

“Let’s go,” he mutters halfway through the cellophane demonstration. I willingly oblige, excited for him to bring me home and fuck me. I’m aching from the vibrator, and yet I have not experienced the sensation of him filling me up yet.

I need to.

I take my coat from the man at the counter, and ease it on. The thick wool rubs painfully against the welts on my back, but I dare not protest. Not until we’re on the street, at least. I’m still his toy.

When I stand, though, I can’t help but to visibly flinch. My knees threaten to give out the moment they are locked, skin burning from being rubbed raw by the linoleum floor. The joints themselves are weak with wear, as well.

He acknowledges this, yet does nothing, opting to tuck my leash into my jacket. “Ready, pet?” he asks, and I nod vigorously. He leads me out of the building.

The moment the door closes behind us, he pushes himself under my arm. _There he is,_ I think, the softness of him returning.

“Lean on me,” he mutters, pulling my arm so it rests on his shoulders. “You might feel better.”

“Thank you,” I reply, gratefully doing so. He might be slight, but he still has muscle on him, he bears my weight with little trouble. Each step we take is in sync, although he has to lengthen his strides to meet mine. Frankly, it’s adorable.

We reach our home. I close my eyes, willing, waiting, knowing that as soon as I walk in, Matt will resume his dominant persona.

I take that step.

But the door doesn’t slam. He shuts it with a careful motion, locking it with even more precision. Instead of an explosion of pain on my back from hitting the wall, I feel the wool coat being removed by delicate fingers. And instead of being dragged up the stairs by my leash, the long leather strap is unhooked from my collar.

Instead of a forceful bite, I’m graced with his thin lips gently pressing against my own.

We aren’t in the scene anymore. We’re in the aftercare, and we haven’t even had sex yet.

“Upstairs, Chris,” he whispers against my lips. “Lay on your stomach, okay? We don’t want you getting sorer.”

I nod, despite his tone not being commanding, and head up to the bedroom. Every movement of mine is punctuated with a sharp pain on the skin of my back, but I power through, reaching the bed and flopping onto my front. I peel the lace underwear from my hips, throwing them on the floor to be forgotten until the next morning.

Not five minutes later, he returns, and I turn to look at him. He’s still wearing his overalls with the ropes beneath, which elicits a sly grin from me. “Still wearing that?”

“Yeah!” he smiles, that tooth peeking out from his lips. “It’s soft. And it makes you happy. And… and you did great. So you deserve something in return.” His voice becomes soft, and he climbs on the bed next to me, squirting… something onto my back. The cool gel—I honestly couldn’t give a fuck what it is; massage oil, calamine lotion, a bucket of his cum—soothes my back almost instantly, and his hands start to rub it in.

The man gives a wicked massage.

“Really good,” he continues. “The way you just _took_ it, and you didn’t really let out any noise because I hadn’t explicitly instructed you to. It’s kind of a shame. I mean, all those people didn’t get to hear your whines and moans.”

“Those are just for you.”

“Just for me?” he exclaims in mock surprise. “Wow, Chris, I’m honored.”

“You should be. Not many people can make me crawl around on some club floor just wearing lace panties and ankle socks.”

He snickers, tenderly rubbing his palms into a particularly harsh welt. “They look good on you.”

“Mm.”

The rest of the time passes in silence, save for the occasional grunt from me. And I don’t mind the silence—it isn’t uncomfortable, but warm. Soft. Inviting. Like a blanket.

“Hey,” he mutters when he’s done, rubbing the excess oil off with a towel nearby. “I love you, Chris.”

“I love you too, Matt.”

“Still wanna fuck?”

I smile like a complete and utter fool. “I think I’m still hard from that flogging.”

“That a yes?”

“Of course, you twat.”

Without even looking at him, I can see that a similarly goofy smile is decorating his face. He asks, “Do you think you can sit up?”

With labored movements, I do so, twisting so that I can face the sound of his voice.

My mouth drops open.

He’s back in that bodysuit with the rope, overalls thrown on the floor. Both his feet are nestled close together, hands clasped near his chin with a pout on his mouth. “Chwissy?” he asks, sounding utterly childish.

“Yes, baby?”

“Do you want me to give you a stwip tease?”

He’s purposely fudging his r’s, doing it to annoy me, but the tone itself doesn’t matter when the words are what they are. “Fuck, please do,” I mutter in response. “Please.”

He nods, hands moving behind him to untie the ends of the rope. They start to fall off his form, one by one loosening the tight bonds that have been encasing him for hours. Beige rope starts to form a pool around his feet. Each knot that falls off hits the ground with a dull thud, and the simple sight of that beige floating to the floor is enough to make my cock twitch in interest. His hands slide over the velvet with every inch of rope that comes off. He strokes his chest, his stomach, his groin, each hand trailing purposely over areas he knows I love to kiss.

When all the rope lays at his socked feet, his thumbs move to play with the straps of his bodysuit. “Baby, wait,” I mutter, and he pauses.

“Huh?”

I open my arms wide, inviting him to come sit in my lap. As he crawls over, I mutter, “I haven’t gotten to hold you at all, and you look so sweet in that.”

“Then hold me.” He climbs into my lap, facing my front, and his hands link around my neck so his forearms rest on my shoulders. My own curious fingers wander to his waist, drawing circles on the velvet with my thumbs as I grasp him. The cloth is unbelievably soft, tickling my fingertips like a gentle touch back. Slowly, my hands move to map out his body, heading to his back, then back around his rips towards his pecs. I quite love that part of him—he’s got a decently built chest, and gorgeous little nipples. I bend slightly, pressing a kiss to one of them.

He lets out a whispery moan.

Despite never letting me touch him in a scene, he’s mad about being treated like a prince.

My hands continue to search his body, tracing over every line of sinewy muscle, until I’m led down to his groin. He’s only just starting to strain against the fabric, but a gentle massage from my hand starts to harden him rapidly. He’s probably been on edge for _hours._

“Chris,” he mutters, the hands behind my neck moving to touch the collar I’m wearing. _He wants to remind me where I really stand._

“Yeah, love?”

“Your back good?”

I look up from his bulge, cocking my head. “What?”

“Your back. How is it?”

“Fine, I guess. Could be better.”

“Can you lay on it?”

I shrug, but before I can verbally reply, he’s easing me onto my back. The contact of sheets on my welts stings slightly, but I power through it, pulling him onto me. As if a switch has been flicked in both our heads, we start to pull his bodysuit off. He has to be naked _immediately._

It comes off quickly, with hardly any resistance, and Matt flings it aside. Tiny droplets of sweat start to bead along his forehead, and a hasty swipe of his hand flicks them away. “God,” he whispers, burying his face into my neck as he starts to grind against me. He pauses, his sentence unfinished, to suck at my neck—at the bruise he made earlier. When he pulls off again, he continues, _“God,_ Chris, I want to fuck you _so bad_. I want to fucking _pound_ you into this mattress, you delicious fucking _whore._ God, I just want to have you _all to myself for the rest of fucking time.”_

“Then do it.”

Puppy eyes turn to look at me, baby blues digging into my own. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Even after—”

_“Yes.”_

A beat of silence passes between us, before he slithers over my body. I come face-to-face with his navel, and my eyes can’t help skirting down to stare at his cock. It bobs a bit with every movement he makes, and I look up to see him shifting against the headboard of our bed. “Hold on,” he says to himself. “I got….”

His phone is suddenly in his hands, and he’s motioning at me. “Stick out your tongue.”

“No.”

His eyes become slits, and the glare under them sends a chill through me. _“Stick it out.”_

I obey. Of course I do. From his angle, it looks like I’m about to take his cock, although it’s really a few inches still from my face. A few seconds pass where he clicks a few photos, before throwing his phone back onto the nightstand.

“I’m going to fuck your face, now,” he mutters, the words clearly meant more for himself than me. Without further warning, he thrusts forward, the tip of his cock prodding my tonsils in an instant. It hurts, and I almost gag—almost—but the strained whine he lets out as a result is _so_ worth it. He doesn’t just still in my mouth, though. Not a single second passes before he extracts himself, then forcing my mouth open wider with another forceful thrust. It’s pointed, it’s purposeful, and it’s _so goddamn sexy._ He’s long, but slim, so I have no difficulty taking him in and letting him use me.

I _love_ it when he uses me. It sends a current of need up my body to swell at my head, making my brain pound against my skull.

With every drill of his cock into my mouth, I let out a hum, followed by a rushed breath. He tastes so unbelievably raw, so strong and prominent and dominating. My nose bumps the hairless joint where his length connects to his body, and every time, I get a whiff of a scent that is so purely _him._ It’s sweet, slightly like baby powder and cut grass, while sharp like a freshly-cut orange. Every time the scent wafts into my body, I feel like _imploding._

_He is the most beautiful man I’ve ever been with. He is the most beautiful man I will ever be with._

It’s over all too soon, and he pulls out between thrusts. The odd bead of saliva drips from his cock and onto my body as he slides back down. His face is painted in exertion, covered in raw lust and desire, especially after having pulled out so soon.

“Sorry,” he mutters, cupping my face with his hands as he presses a tender kiss to my swollen lips. “Sorry, I’m just… I need more. I need to be inside of you.”

“Don’t be sorry for that,” I mutter against him.

“No, that and the fact that I was getting stubble burn from your beard.”

At that, I let out a short and amused cackle. “Course you were, bloody twink.”

“Oi, I’m not gonna fuck you with that attitude!”

“Won’t you?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow, and he purses his lips.

“Ohh… fine, fine, I will,” he gives in. “Fine. But you’ve gotta promise me that you’re okay. I kind of went rough on you, er, earlier.”

“I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

 _“I’m fine._ I won’t be fine if you don’t get your dick in me _now.”_

“Ooh, bossy.”

“Cunt.”

The banter is quick, a practiced way between us to get us ready for what’s to come. His lips latch onto my neck, at the spot that he bruised before, sucking, biting, licking. His hand sneaks between our bodies, coated in a thin layer of lube that he got from fuck knows where, slicking himself up. “Mm, still wet with your spit,” he laughs into my neck. It’s a dark laugh. It’s a laugh full of craving, raw need.

“I’m gonna fuck you, now,” he states, wiping his hand on the sheets. True to his word, his cock prods at my sensitive entrance. “I’m gonna—gonna fuck you so hard, Chris, gonna put my dick in you and just _go.”_

Before he does, though, he stops, getting off me slightly. “Turn over.”

“What?”

“Get on your stomach. Don’t want your back to chafe.”

I don’t particularly _want_ to lay on my front, as I want to see him, but I listen anyway. Even if we aren’t in a scene, he’s still so compelling. I roll over onto my belly.

“No, don’t just _lie_ there,” he grumbles, pushing at my hips. “Come on. Show me your cunt.”

Willingly, I ease my hips a tad bit up and spread my legs, so that he can see my… _cunt,_ as he so lovingly refers to it.

“There we go.”

In one fluid motion, he grabs my hips and shoves inside me with such a force that I lurch forward. _“Fuck,”_ we breathe together, my fingers digging into the sheets beneath me. Having been stretched earlier, his cock doesn’t hurt—rather, it fills me with the type of exquisite pleasure that I constantly crave from him.

He doesn’t rest for long within me, and he starts to gift me with long, powerful strokes moments after his first thrust. Relentlessly, he fills me up, over and over and over until I’m gasping for breath. I’m never lacking his thickness, always feeling that if he puts an ounce more strength behind his onslaught, I’ll rupture my insides. _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ my mind repeats on a loop.

I love him. I love him so much.

I can’t close my mouth even if I try. My eyes flicker between being blown wide open and clenching shut, trying to endure his constant plunges into my core. Every sensation is magnified—from the drumming of my heart to the steady slap of skin on skin, from the sounds of my hissed breaths to that of his short and focused moans.

Every once in a while, he stops to collect his breath, but his hips never stop moving, for he rolls them harshly against my abused rear even when he isn’t thrusting back and forth. When he does that, he hits all the sweet spots within. Each brush of his swollen cock on my prostate makes me more and more aroused—if that’s even possible. He’s hot and sweaty and so, _so_ sexy.

Then he returns to his constant pounding. He wasn’t kidding when he said he wanted to fuck me. Every single one of his thrusts, accompanied with a harsh grip on my hips, reminds me that _I am simply there to be manhandled by him. I am here to please him. I am here to succumb to every one of his barbaric whims._

He slows, for a moment, leaning over me to whisper words into my ear. His hands plant themselves on each side of my head, and I turn just in time to feel him lay himself on my back. _Fuck,_ it stings, but I push through it, straining my ears to hear what he’s saying.

“You are… you are an amazing fuck, Chris. E-Even if you just had—nn—that vibrator in you, you’re still _so_ tight. _Jesus,_ Chris, you’re so—you’re so fucking _hot,_ you know how to _t-take it_ just right, yeah, you know how to take it like the _sinful fucking dog you are._ I just love sinking myself _over and over_ again into you; you’re like—you’re like a sweet honey pot,” he growls, enunciating the ‘t’ sound with a particularly pointed thrust, “just waiting for me to _take_ you.”

“Yes-s-s,” I hiss, my eyes locked on the hand that’s grounded next to my face.

“Chris,” he breathes into my ear, pulling his hand down and forcing it between my body and the mattress. His thumb starts to swipe over that spot on my cock, the one right below my head on its underside, and my toes curl with pleasure. Every motion of his fingers sends a heady pulse flaring through my body, like a single plucked string that reverberates through my entire nervous system. “Chris, you are so fucking beautiful right now, you look so erotic and sweaty and _manly,_ baby, _fucking—”_

He’s close. He’s so close. His weighty girth starts to throb within my tight heat, every single thrust becoming more wild and offbeat. He moves his other hand off the bed, so that my aching back supports all his weight, and he wiggles that arm underneath my body to hold me close. “Baby,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Chris, baby, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna fucking _soil_ your insides….”

“Do it,” I groan, the pressure inside me proving to be too much. “Do it, soil me, t-taint me, _Matt!”_

_“Fuck!”_

In an instant, he’s doing what he just promised, and warm spurts of his bliss soak my clenching insides. I come not long after, my own juices leaking and staining the sheets below me. I ride on his aftershocks and keening mewls, along with the tiny nips he gives my neck and ear.

We become one panting, quivering mess afterwards, his arms still holding my torso close. “Baby,” he whispers, and I grunt, satisfied.

“Matt, you have to pull out,” I manage, his cock starting to soften and my body starting to protest. He hums in acknowledgement, doing so carefully and leaving my hole gaping in the process. He hastily grabs some tissues from the nightstand, but I shake my head. “I’m not sleeping in these sheets. We’re gonna change them.”

“Correction: You’re gonna change them,” Matt grumbles, rolling off me and onto his side. “I’m not leaving.”

“You wanna become a burrito of semen-stained fitted sheet?”

“…No.”

“Then get up, come on. I’m gonna wash off real quick.” With a pat to his shoulder, I clumsily climb off the bed, stumbling on sore knees to retrieve new sheets from the closet. When I return with said sheets, having just taken the world’s quickest shower, he’s stripped the bed and is laying on the bare mattress, on his phone.

“What?” he asks when I stare at him accusingly.

“You gonna get off?”

“Fine! Fine, I’m getting.”

I chuckle slightly at his flailing movements, and hurriedly fit the sheet over the bed. As soon as it’s on, he climbs back on, phone still in his hand. “C’mere,” he motions, and I scoot over next to his body. He’s warm, but slightly less than normal, so I throw an arm over his tummy and lean in to kiss his neck. Sex usually makes him a bit colder than normal.

The muffled click of a shutter causes my eyes to shoot open, and I turn to see that he’s just taken a picture of us. It’s cut off before you can see my eyes or his face, but it still captures the smooth expanse of his chest and the side of my own. Somehow, he’s made himself look paler than normal—the white of his skin competes with the white of the sheets in terms of translucentness. The dark hairs on my face are the highlight of the picture, each soft line on my body contrasting heavily with his angular form. He’s all pale, hairless, sharp muscle; I’m all tanned, hairy, soft skin.

“Gonna post this,” he mutters, typing out a few words and sending out the image. I peek over to see that it reads, _Love this man so much._

“Is that the first time I’m on your page?” I ask, unsure how the whole technology-scene works.

He smiles. “Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I usually just post myself or cool buildings I see.”

“Yourself…?”

“In lingerie and… stuff.”

“Oh.” The times that he’s worn lingerie for me have lasted no more than a few minutes, for I can’t resist letting him ravish me whenever he does. But I’m too tired right now to think of that.

He pulls the covers up over our forms, then, leaving his phone to charge overnight. “Gonna go to bed. It’s already quarter to ten and I’m exhausted.”

As if to reply, I yawn exaggeratedly. “Me too.”

One of his hands moves to play with the hair on my chest, stroking and fiddling with it. “G’night, Chris. Love you.”

“Love you too, Matt. Sweet dreams.”

I take the responsibility of turning the light off, and his breaths are even and deep when I step back into the bed. He looks like an angel, dozing peacefully under the white blankets we share. He’s back to being that soft, tender man, the one he was before we went out to the club earlier in the day. Even if he’s asleep, with his eyes moving faintly under their lids, he still resonates a need to be protected.

My name is Christopher Tony Wolstenholme. I sometimes go fishing on weekends, if I have the time. I don’t like cats. I’ve never gone horseback riding. I’m right handed. I can play almost any instrument you hand me, but I don’t do that for a career because too many people play instruments already. I like having a beard, but I don’t like when it grows out too much longer than stubble. I’m secretly a submissive, and not many people know that about me. I’ve got a few tattoos of skeletons.

My name is Christopher Tony Wolstenholme, and my boyfriend, Matthew James Bellamy, is the love of my life.


End file.
